Internal Monologue
by Jen6
Summary: Abby POV. Abby/Carter interaction after Abby receives news about Maggie. It came out of nowhere. Just read and review!


"Internal Monologue"  
  
E-Mail: JMGDrama@aol.com  
DISCLAIMER: You are getting sleepy. You are getting very sleepy. They are mine. Still getting sleepy.  
RATING: PG-13 for language (and mental images...you'll see what I mean)  
CATEGORY: Angst/Humor/ kinda Romance. Not my typical light, funny story (I have one of those coming in a few weeks), though there are elements of it present. Just read and see what you think.  
SPOILERS: None (that I'm aware of...let me know if I'm wrong).  
SUMMARY: Abby POV. Carter/Abby interactions after Abby receives news about Maggie.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I don't know where this came from. Just some black void that is my mind during finals. Hope someone gets a kick out of it.  
  
====  
  
It's so damn hot.   
  
Outside I stand in the shade and wave my arms wildly for some cool air to circulate around. I must look like a demented chicken. I have this urge to shove my head into the collar of my shirt to experience what it'd feel like to be a chicken with no head.  
  
I don't do it. They might call Psych.  
  
Maybe they should.  
  
I stop my dance. I think I'm hotter now than I was. Damn.  
  
I look over at the ER doors. There's an air conditioner running inside. I can feel the longing that comes across my face. Another urge comes over me. This time it's a dramatic scene where I crawl along the ground, arm stretched beseechingly toward the sliding doors as I croak out "Water. I need water." My arm tingles a bit just thinking about it. Still, I don't give in.  
  
I hear my name, but I pretend not to so I can stay in the shade for a few more minutes.  
  
But he's persistent. Damn Carter.  
  
He beckons to me. From the sun.   
  
I take it he needs help with the patients from *this* bus, too. Stupid tour buses. No wonder people get heat stroke if they sit in buses without air conditioning for hours on a day with this kind of weather.  
  
I pick up the bucket of cold water beside me. It's awkward and heavy. I imagine myself groaning under the weight and staggering forth to do my duty to the sick and helpless while they cheer me on. It makes me feel better.  
  
I see where the sun begins to hit the pavement and step toward it hesitatingly. I give Carter a glare for making me come into it.  
  
He smiles. I think he thinks it's comical. Big bucket, small Abby. Yes, let's all laugh now.  
  
The sun hits my body and an intense fire burns throughout me. This must be how it feels to burn to death. I look hard at my clothes and I can almost see them start to smoke.   
  
Maybe I'm a vampire. It would also explain why I'm sleepy right now in the middle of the day. I look at Carter to see if I'm interested in drinking his blood. He smirks at me. Nope, not interested. But I'm not hungry, maybe that's why.  
  
I walk into the shade of the bus. I put the bucket of water down so we can give cold, wet cloths to the people still waiting for their turn to be seen by doctors once the ER clears out from the heat stroke victims on the *other* bus.  
  
Carter pats my back and congratulates me for bringing over the bucket. I think it's bad that I want to punch him. He chuckles. I guess he thought he was funny. I don't tell him that he wasn't.  
  
But for fun I pretend I sock him right in the stomach. It isn't the same, though.  
  
Sweat trickles down my back and it feels like a bug crawling on my skin. I resist the temptation to run around screaming, "Get it off! GET. IT. OFF!"  
  
I continue to give wet cloths to people. The water isn't cold anymore. The heat billowing off the pavement has heated it. It's lukewarmish. The worst temperature of water.  
  
I grimace. But keep doing my job. It isn't the job I wanted, but it's the one I've got. I wish I had the courage to stomp into an administrative meeting and demand more money and the chance to finish med school. I know I'll never do it, so I picture myself doing it and a rush of adrenaline fills me.  
  
I smile. Carter glances at me in shock. I mutter something that I want to sound like "What? What are you looking at, you ass? Mind your own business!" but really is "It's hot." Carter nods stupidly.  
  
It's funny that I imagine him nodding and nodding and nodding until finally his head pops off with too much use. I think I saw that on some early morning cartoon, once. Not with Carter in it, though.  
  
He says something to me. I answer. If anyone were to ask what we'd said, I'd have no idea. I like my ability to listen yet not retain. It's a kind of talent. At least, I like to think so.  
  
I look at the hot pavement and bet an egg would cook on it. To test my theory, I drop some water and watch it sizzle. I knew it. Even though no one else was aware of the contest, I take perverse pleasure in winning.  
  
Looking up from my now dry spot on the pavement, I see Randi walking across to Doc Magoo's. Actually it's more of a run, skip and a hop since no one, except maybe Carter, wants to stay a second longer than necessary in this killer heat.   
  
She's wearing a thin, short, red dress. I can almost imagine that it's Maggie. As I think it, the hidden ache in my chest begins to grow quickly and I think my heart's going to explode. Although the muscle is constricting, the pain fills me until I can't breath and I know I'll burst if anyone tries to talk to me.  
  
I stick my hand in the tepid water and stare at it. I try to focus on the little air bubbles that stick to my pores and hair follicles. I try to watch my reflection in the water and imagine myself with various colors of hair. I try to count the towels soaking in the water on the bottom of the tub. I try, I try, I try.  
  
And none of it works.  
  
All I can think about is the conversation.  
  
It plays back in my memory unwanted.  
  
Me, leaning against the wall, the phone pressing painfully against my ear as Officer Thompson explains that she had been "hit by a car."  
  
My stomach tightens uncontrollably and my chest compresses as the recollection plays on. I feel the pressure of tears behind my eyes, but I take a deep breath and swallow them down. I know the ways of hiding my tears, softening the shudders, evening the breaths. I have learned. I have control. I don't cry.  
  
The officer thinks I've hung up. He says "hello?" a few times and I have to say "yes" in order to tell him that I'm still here. He wants to know if I'm okay. I want to say no, but I don't. My hand tightens on the phone. I listen and run an internal monologue as he talks to me. "Your mother's alcohol blood level was high."  
  
I'm a nurse. Don't try that medical shit. Phrase it in common speech. She was drunk. Obscenely and thoroughly drunk.  
  
"She tried to cross the highway."  
  
I guess she didn't use the pedestrian crossing?  
  
"She was hit by a car."  
  
As opposed to the UFO that came down from the sky and scooped her up.  
  
"We rushed her to the hospital, but she passed away in the ambulance."  
  
...  
  
After he tells me this, I freeze. My heart stops. My blood stops. Nothing works. For a second I feel like I'm dead, that I'll collapse.   
  
Then, the second is over and anger rushes through my system, overwhelming me.  
  
I hate her. I hate her. I hate her!  
  
I always knew it would end like this. Always. And yet she made me hope. All those years of cycles, of patterns, of dances. The slight possibility that she would get better.  
  
But no.  
  
Never.  
  
She didn't care enough.  
  
Didn't care enough about herself. Didn't care enough about me.  
  
And then I feel guilty. It wasn't her fault. A heavy weight settles on my chest and shoulders because I'm a nurse, because I'm her daughter. I could have helped her.  
  
I did!  
  
Not enough.  
  
My arm aches, and I look into the tub of water to see my hand in a fist, the whites of my knuckles showing clearly out from the red, tightened muscles. I relax it and relish the tingles of sensation that travels up my arm. I'm surviving.  
  
The pain is tight in my throat and chest, and the tears are pressing behind my eyes. But I muster every ounce of strength I can and push it away. I don't cry.  
  
I feel a hand on my shoulder. And I know that it's Carter even before I look up. He has this uncanny ability to find me when there's something wrong.  
  
I want to tell him to go away, but there's a place in me that wants him to stay.  
  
Somewhere in the vicinity of my heart.  
  
Just the touch of his hand provides comfort. Well, briefly. Now it just adds heat to this humidity. I look up at him so he'll move his hand before I melt.  
  
He wants to know if I'm okay.  
  
I figure my quiet, crouched over the water tub position gave me away. But maybe something else gave me away. I think back to my actions, wondering if I had indeed tried to drink his blood. My lips don't taste of coppery, thick blood. I shake my head no. No way.  
  
Carter looks at me quizzically and I realize that I just answered him in the negative.  
  
I try to explain that I was thinking about something else and that I'm okay. Nothing comes out. So, I change the subject.  
  
The patients.  
  
Anyone still need help?  
  
He's really alarmed. I see it in his face.  
  
Looking around, I see that almost all the patients are gone, presumably in the ER. I make an attempt to smile and turn it into a joke. It's weak. And fails.  
  
But time is passing and wounds are closing.  
  
For now.  
  
I stand up and shake my lukewarmishly wet hand to get the water off. For a moment I'm focused on the movement as I'm reminded of a dog shaking its wet fur. I try to get that syncopated, fluid shake.  
  
A cough.  
  
What?!  
  
Carter.  
  
Oh, oops. Forgot he was there. I feel a blush rise in my cheeks. But it's still hot, maybe he won't notice.  
  
But he does. He's Carter.  
  
I lean down to pick up the bucket, but Carter says he'll do it. I let him. A thrill runs through me at the thought of patting him on the back and congratulating *his* efforts.  
  
It's short lived.  
  
He wants to know if I want to talk. I guess my overly talkative self gave him that impression. I shake my head, again. No Carter, I don't want to talk.  
  
He knows I'm lying, but leaves it alone and walks off with the bucket. He doesn't even question it.  
  
I feel guilty. I want to take back my imaginary punch to his stomach. So I do. The guilt goes a way. A little.  
  
I start to go back inside. To the air conditioner. But, Carter calls my name.  
  
I throw the punch back into the past, and add in an extra one for good measure.  
  
He reminds me of our AA meeting tonight and invites me to coffee beforehand.  
  
I surprise myself by saying yes.  
  
Will wonders ever cease?  
  
====  
  
I look at myself in the mirror.  
  
My God. When did the bags under my eyes get so dark?  
  
I rub at them. To no avail.  
  
The action reminds me of Maggie.  
  
And all of a sudden, I can't hold in the pain.  
  
I break. Knowing I'm alone.  
  
The tears fall uncontrollably onto my cheeks, weaving their way across my skin, burning a path of fire.  
  
My mouth opens in silent agony. My hands tighten in fists. My chest is so tight I know I'm dying.  
  
I sob.  
  
I let out my trapped voice and scream.  
  
But it's muffled from the pillow I've curled up around in an attempt to push the hole in my heart away.  
  
I cry for the loss of my mother. For the loss of my childhood. For the loss of a motherly hug, kiss, whisper, smell, touch, and smile.  
  
I cry out my anger at her, at my father, at Eric, and at me. For all the things we did wrong, for all the times we screamed, for all the times we laughed. For all the past memories and the ones we'll never have.  
  
I miss her so much it hurts.  
  
I hug the pillow closer to me, longing for her. For someone. Anyone.  
  
Just a presence. To know I'm not alone.  
  
And fresh tears fall for the ache of loneliness in my heart.  
  
I cry until I'm exhausted.  
  
Emotionally wrung-out.  
  
I can imagine myself as a sponge, slowly absorbing the pain until I can't hold anymore. Then, I squeeze and twist every last drop of emotion out.  
  
With that pictured in my head, I close my reddened and sore eyes and sleep.  
  
I wake at the knock on the door.  
  
My eyes feel swollen.  
  
They are.  
  
I'm a mess.  
  
But I open the door.  
  
It's Carter.  
  
He doesn't say anything.  
  
But, I know he knows. About my crying. About Maggie.  
  
Just the way he stares at me.  
  
God.  
  
He reaches out and grabs my hand.  
  
It is warm and soft...inviting.  
  
Our fingers lace together and he rubs the back of my hand with his thumb.  
  
I squeeze his hand.  
  
He squeezes back.  
  
I think I'll be okay.  
  
I think he knows.  
  
We walk down my apartment stairs to the sidewalk.  
  
I stare at my feet traveling over the ground as Carter pulls me to his car. The rhythm is so methodical.   
  
step...step...step.   
  
Over and over again. A cycle.  
  
I take a large step over a crack and for a moment, the tempo is distorted. Then my feet quickly resume their natural beat.   
  
step...step...step.  
  
It reminds me of a wheel, constantly turning, rolling over the good and the bad, but always moving forward.  
  
It reminds me of me.  
  
I'm aware of someone watching.  
  
It's Carter.  
  
I stop and smile. I didn't think I felt happy enough to, but I guess I did. I don't understand myself.  
  
He hugs me.  
  
Spur of the moment kind of thing.  
  
And it's so warm and comfortable. He surrounds me, shielding me from the nightmares that I envision. He whispers words of encouragement and friendship. It's what I need. It's what I want.  
  
I feel protected. I feel appreciated. I feel loved.  
  
And somewhere in my dehydrated body, tears flow up and fill my eyes.  
  
I'm embarrassed.  
  
My cheeks are red.  
  
I bury my face into his sweater, to help hold back the pain of some sort of happiness. The fabric is soft and I lose myself in it, focusing on the natural smell of him.  
  
The tears fade.  
  
I don't need to cry. I'm okay.  
  
Carter knows his moments. He steps back, re-grabs my hand, and we continue our walk to the car.  
  
That's it. No questions. Just support. Simple. Neat. Effective.  
  
I'm taking those punches out again.  
  
Damn him for making me feel guilty.  
  
And now I feel impulsive.  
  
Almost giddy.  
  
It makes me scared.  
  
Do you want to skip the AA meeting?  
  
He just nods.  
  
Way to kill my mood, Carter.  
  
Jeez.  
  
Do you still want coffee?  
  
He nods.  
  
Again.  
  
And I thought I was the quiet one.  
  
We are at his car.  
  
I don't know what we are going to do.  
  
From the look of it, neither does he.  
  
Carter suggests getting coffee, then walking.  
  
So he does have an idea.  
  
It's Chicago, late at night, John.  
  
He says I can trust him.  
  
I tell him that I've heard that phrase many times.  
  
Not from him.  
  
A pause. I have nothing to say. I don't know what to say.  
  
He takes it as a yes.  
  
Hand in hand, we continue our walk.  
  
I guess we won't be taking the car. I glance wistfully at it. I'm an American. We love a good car ride.  
  
He sees me looking at it, but points to the El station.  
  
I want to pretend I don't know what he's getting at, my subtle hint to take his car. But I don't. I know that I only want to because I'm lazy and the car is closer than the station.  
  
On the El, Carter sits next to me.  
  
When the train takes a curve, our thighs brush together softly.  
  
It's nice.  
  
He keeps a hold on my hand, and we sit there together. Quiet. At peace.  
  
I stare out of the window and watch the world rush past.  
  
All the lights outside blur into a stream of color, a dancing display of life.  
  
And I'm reminded of one person who will never see this again.  
  
I look down at my hand locked tight with Carter's.  
  
It gives me strength.  
  
Our eyes meet and he manages to convey support, admiration, sympathy, friendship and encouragement without saying a word.  
  
He leans toward me. I think it's for a kiss.  
  
And it is. A light kiss on my forehead. And a whisper in my ear that I'm strong.  
  
I tell Carter that it's because of him.  
  
He shakes his head. No, Abby. You are strong enough.  
  
I don't know what to say, so I just look at him.   
  
He smiles. But I'll be there to help.  
  
And even though the pain is still there, I feel the start of the healing process.  
  
====  
  
  
There you go! Review just for the hell of it, 'kay? :) 


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